Lover's Comfort
by Anakerie
Summary: A series of one shots about Dovahkiin Stephen and his companion and lover, Erik the Slayer. M/M, some violence.
1. Living Legends

_Disclaimer:_

_I do not own the characters of Skyrim. This is the first in a series of one-shots about my character, Stephen the Breton, and his companion/lover Erik the Slayer. Erik can be found in the Frostfruit Inn in Rorikstead: you are supposed to be able to marry him, but due to a glitch the option never appears. By the time I realized this I was already too attached to start using anyone else. I've taken a few liberties here (the size of Rorikstead for one) but tried to stay true to the game whenever possible. One of Erik's lines to my character is "You lead, I'll follow." Lover's Comfort is a bonus you receive for sleeping in your own house once married._

**Lover's Comfort: Living Legends**

Stephen leads and Erik follows.

It has been that way since the beginning of their association, the native son of Skyrim dogging the footsteps of the foreigner, but Erik does not mind. He trusts Stephen to know where their next destination is, and Stephen trusts Erik to keep up and watch for danger.

Following also allows Erik to appreciate the fluid grace of Stephen's movements. Under his light armor the Breton is all sinew and wiry muscle. Bretons, Erik knows, all have Elven blood somewhere in their lineage. Stephen does not appreciate comparisons, however. He isn't overly fond of elves. Erik is careful to keep his teasing within what Stephen considers acceptable levels. They have been lovers for some time now, and friends longer than that. Erik believes that it is his duty as both a lover and a friend to cajole Stephen out of the dark moods he is sometimes prone to, when the weight of what he has to do is about to crush him.

They are headed toward Whiterun now, and Stephen thinks they'll reach it by nightfall. Erik is lulled by the distant birdcalls and the crunch of their boots in the frosty grass, but he keeps part of his mind alert for the howls of wolves on the hunt, and the leathery flapping that indicates something far more deadly. He allows the other part to drift where it will, and today as he watches Stephen dart up a hill he remembers how the Breton came into his life.

_Rumors that the Dragonborn, the Dovahkiin, is headed to Rorikstead have floated around for days now. Erik is excited by this, his father Mralki more curious than anything else. He has dutifully taught Erik the legend since the boy was old enough to reason, the same as his own father taught him. He wouldn't believe a word of it, except that he has seen the dragons circling in the distance. He cares not whether or not the man in question is actually Dovahkiin: if he's willing to kill off the wretched beasts before they destroy more lives, Mralki wishes him all the best. His son, who loves Rorikstead but is bored to tears by it, can't wait to meet the living legend and thinks it may be the best day of his life._

_Erik tries to imagine what Dovahkiin will look like, and he pictures a hulking, grisly man of middle age. His mind's eye covers the hero in gleaming silver armor, straps a giant broadsword to his back. Brown hair rapidly going to gray, a weather-creased face. He would have wise, somewhat distant eyes, and a thousand stories to tell. Erik has cleaned the best room the inn has over and over, piled the softest furs upon the bed. He hopes that the Dovahkiin will not be insulted by what they offer: they are not wealthy men._

_He looks up that evening when the door opens, and is disappointed to see only a weary-looking young Breton. He looks about twenty, a few years Erik's junior. He's as blond and fair-skinned as any Nord, but Erik was taller and bulkier at twelve than this man is grown. He wears lethal-looking daggers on his bony hips, and when he moves toward the counter he sways so much it reminds Erik of a candle flame. He speaks for a moment to Mralki, his accent so thick it takes Erik a moment to understand what he's saying. A room, Erik finally is able to make out, some salt, and permission to use the cooking pot dangling over the fire. Coin is exchanged, and the Breton heads for the fire, standing there for a moment enjoying the warmth before throwing some meat and vegetables into the pot. He appears dead on his feet. _

"_Have a seat, friend, before you fall over." Erik offers, pushing a wooden chair toward the Breton. The boy (it's hard for Erik not to think of him as a boy) accepts it gratefully. He proceeds to peel off some rather ineffective-looking (at least to Erik) armor and leans against the back of the chair, his face tilted upward as he basks in the peace and heat._

"_Long travel?" Erik asks. His father shoots him a look that clearly says "Don't bother him" but the boy doesn't seem to mind. He gives Erik a quick smile. "I've come from Whiterun." Erik understands him better this time, but it still takes some effort. How in the world do the Bretons ever communicate with each other, he wonders, when all their words seem to flow together? "Whiterun! By the Nine: why didn't you take a carriage?"_

_The boy chuckles. "Can't hunt from a carriage. Not easily, anyway."_

"_Ah, you're a hunter? I am too. My father taught me to use a bow almost before I could toddle."_

_They continue to speak about hunting techniques and weapons and favorite prey. The boy, who gives his name only as Stephen, devours his simple stew (which appears gray and unappetizing to Erik) and buys some bread and ale off of Erik's father. Erik finally asks "Did you happen to see Dovahkiin? He's supposed to be headed here but we haven't seen him yet."_

_Stephen shrugs one shoulder, and there is a ghost of a smile on his face. He seems to be taking Erik's measure, and the Nordsman almost blushes as red as his hair. "I'm not sure. What does he look like?"_

"_I've never met him, but he's a great warrior. He's supposed to be a Breton, like you, but probably a much older."_

"_Likely then the poor old bugger's already frozen to death. Your inn would see a lot livelier business, my friend, if your customers survived long enough to make it here. I had doubts about myself a time or two." Stephen makes a kind of odd sniffing noise, and Erik gets the feeling he's trying hard not to laugh. It annoys him. "Scoff all you want, Stranger, but he's already rid the world of a four dragons. There have been legends about him since before my great-grandfather's time. I doubt he'd be deterred by a little snow."_

"_He'd have to be a great warrior indeed to live up to the legends." Stephen agrees. "Maybe he's not what you think: maybe he's simply a man caught up in something a lot larger than he ever intended." The logs in the firepit crackle, and Erik is aware that his father is listening in to their conversation. They are the only people in Frostfruit Inn tonight. In the recent past, this place would have been filled with villagers and the smell of mead around this time of evening, but with the threat of dragons everywhere people are choosing to stay indoors after dark now. _

"_He came to Skyrim to save us!" Erik is beyond annoyed with this rude little Breton. "It was foretold…"_

_The Breton shrugs again . "If you say so. Now if you'll excuse me, I paid your father good septims for a bed, and I intend to use it."_

_But Fate has other ideas tonight, because no sooner have the words left the Breton's mouth than the entire inn trembles and the air is split with a shriek that makes Erik's hair stand on end. A moment later the town's warning bell rings, but Erik and his father are already out the door. He is dimly aware of his father pressing a sword hilt into his hand, but the full scope of his intention is on the giant beast squatting in the middle of town._

_He had thought dragons would be hideously ugly things, but this creature is beautiful and that makes it even more frightening, although if pressed he really couldn't say why that was. The monster is already being flanked by the men of Rorikstead. They've wounded it, but these are men used to hunting and fighting off bandit raids, and before Erik's eyes the beast catches Trofur between its fangs and flings him off to the side. There is a cry of grief from one of the women (his wife? His daughter?) but Erik doesn't bother finding out. He starts toward the dragon but his father holds him back with an iron grip. "Guard the women and children. Don't let it get at them!"_

_He has always been an obedient son, but for the first time in his life he is on the verge of rebelling. His sword is thirsty for dragon blood and he wants a piece of the creature. He hesitates for a second, and that's when he sees a small figure in silver rushing headlong into the fray and for the first time, he sees Stephen fight._

_The Breton lacks the size to handle a broadsword, but he doesn't need one. The daggers glitter in the moonlight as he darts forward, slashing at the neck of the beast, and then ducking under the flames and teeth. He looks and fights like a demented wasp, and the huge, lumbering dragon cannot maneuver itself quickly enough to stop him. Twice Erik flinches, believe it almost has the Breton, and twice Stephen rolls to safety at the last second. The dragon lowers his head an attempt to gore him with a giant horn, and Stephen lashes out with both daggers, each one slicing cleanly across an eye. Blinded now, the beast begins to panic and this is the moment the man (Erik can no longer think of him as a boy) has been waiting for. He crosses his arms and the daggers open up the dragon's throat as he pulls them quickly to the sides. The beast tries to roar again, but only manages a weak gurgling cry before it falls to the ground, still._

_Erik begins to move forward cautiously, about to ask the Breton if he's injured, when the dragon's body begins to glow. Erik jumps back instinctively, as do the villagers of Rorikstead. Stephen remains however, his eyes never leaving the dragon, and he appears to be waiting for something. His body begins to radiate blue, and he tilts his head back, the same as he had in the inn when appreciating the fire. The glow becomes stronger, and there is a look of both pain and ecstasy on Stephen's face. Then it's gone as quickly as it happened, and the dragon has become a pile of bone._

_The muttering around Erik becomes excited, and the crowd moves forward, surging around Stephen. In the distance, Erik sees Trofur miraculously on his feet, being supported by his wife. He looks dazed and his clothing is torn, but he appears to be unharmed. His attention goes back to the Breton, who looks just as shaken as Trofur. _

"_Dovahkiin! It's true! The legend is true! He's here."_

"_Dovahkiin killed it! Took the bastard's soul!"_

"_Dragonborn…"_

"_Enough!" Mralki shoves everyone aside and takes Stephen firmly by the arm. "Leave him be! You can pester him tomorrow: the lad was about to collapse anyway when he showed up here tonight. Come on, son. Let's get you to bed."_

_No one argues, and Erik moves quickly to hold open the door of the inn. As Erik's father hustles the Breton past him, Stephen's eyes lock on his for a moment. Erik meets his gaze, and sees…an utterly exhausted young man, singed and battered and totally confused about how he ended up in these circumstances. He sees not Dovahkiin, not the awe-inspiring living legend, but Stephen. And then Stephen breaks his gaze and steps back inside the warmth of the inn. _

_Erik follows._

They are still a good few hours from Whiterun when Erik spots the dragon in the distance, and brings it to Stephen's attention. They've reached the top of a small knoll, and they pause there, their hands on their weapons. They are ready for battle.

The dragon, it seems, is not. It may be aware of their presence: it probably is, but it has no desire to fight at this time. Instead it swoops and dives in the air, riding the wind currents. The setting sun makes the blue scales glitter like a rich woman's sapphire choker.

"Almost beautiful, isn't it?" Stephen asks softly, never taking his eyes off the creature. "I'd think it was lovely if I didn't hate them so damn much."

Erik makes a sound of agreement, and he wishes he could freeze this moment in time: the colors of the sunset, the peace of the evening, and the dragon that appears to be, against everything he's ever known or seen of the beasts, playing. He can hear Stephen's breathing, and the Breton smells like dust and leather and sweat and the onions they had in their stew earlier that day. Rorikstead and the safety of his father's hearth are far away, but there is nowhere in the world Erik would rather be right now and no one he would rather be with.

The sun sinks lower and the dragon finally grows bored with his (her?) game and flies off into the distance. Stephen shakes himself, and the mood is broken. "Ready to move on?"

Erik nods and rotates his neck, which now as a crick in it from staring upward so long. "It'll be good to sleep in a real bed tonight. Whose idea was it to make the ground so hard, anyway?"

Contrary to the opinion of most who know him, Stephen does have a sense of humor. It's subtle, and he's by nature a quiet man so it doesn't show itself often. Now is not one of those times: he gives Erik a sideways look that clearly states he knows his lover is joking and doesn't think much of the effort. Erik is in no way offended by this: he simply stares back with a look of bland innocence, and finally Stephen's lips curl up in a smile. "Get a move on, Nord, or we'll be spending yet another night on inconsiderately hard soil." He reaches up and runs his thumb briefly across Erik's cheek, the leather rough against his companion's beard. Words do not always come easily to him, but with Erik he doesn't always need them.

The moment passes. Stephen turns and heads off again in the direction of Whiterun after one last glance at the sky to make sure the dragon hasn't doubled back around on them.

Erik follows.


	2. Respite

_Once again, I do not own these characters: Bethesda does. I encourage everyone playing to immediately head to Frostfruit Inn and recruit Erik: he is made of awesome. Big thank you to AmazingSoulWeasle for the kind words and good advice! You too are made of awesome._

**Respite**

Stephen may be small, but he isn't delicate. Not when it comes to battle, and not in bed, either. The Nordsmen pride themselves on their sexual prowess, and Erik has never been any different. However, Stephen is easily his match in stamina and enthusiasm, and it is often Erik who sports the bruises come morning. He does not mind this at all. Stephen has become his skooma: the Breton is in his blood and he finds himself always craving more of him. He wants to know all of the Stephen, and he is sometimes painfully aware that this annoys his companion. Especially when Erik presses him about his past. For the first three months that they are lovers, Erik only knows that Stephen was born in High Rock, nothing more.

Stephen wakes tonight, feeling the wooden house shake under the force of the wind outside. Whiterun is often spared the nastier weather the northern cities experience, but it gets its fair share. He and Erik and Meeko beat the blizzard home by minutes, and he knows they will be trapped inside for at least a few days. The larder is well stocked with food and water: their forced captivity will be a comfortable one, but it still bothers the Breton. He dislikes being confined anywhere: he never leaves a cave without sucking in deep breathes of fresh, pure air and relishing the sight of the sun.

He becomes aware, slowly, that the bed next to him is empty. He remembers falling asleep against Erik's warm bulk, the Nord's calloused fingers entwined with his own. Suddenly he feels an unreasonable sense of panic: suppose the blizzard let up and Erik has left? What if the Nordsman has simply had enough of him and 'adventuring' and has returned to the safety of his father and his farm? Stephen knows these thoughts are idiotic but he is quickly out of bed and pulling on his breeches linen shirt, and taking the stairs down from the rafter bedroom two at a time.

Erik has not left. He sits in a chair next to the firepit, which he has rebuilt up into a cheerful blaze. He wears only his breeches, his chest bare in the firelight. One long leg rests in the chair beside him. With his other foot, he is absently stroking the dog Meeko, who dozes near the blaze. He sips now and then from a bottle of ale, and turns his head when he hears Stephen approach. His smile of greeting is warmer to Stephen than the firepit as Erik moves his leg off the chair and motions for his lover to take it.

"Can't sleep?" Erik asks, and Stephen answers him with a shrug, suddenly embarrassed about the panic that drove him down here.

"Are you hungry? I can make some soup." Erik offers, and Stephen shakes his head.

They sit for a minute in silence. Meeko whimpers and moves his legs, and Stephen wonders what the dog dreams about. Maybe his old life and master, or maybe things they could never understand. He took the dog home on a whim, and doesn't regret it. It almost feels like a family, the three of them...

"Do you miss your father?" Stephen asks suddenly.

"Sometimes." Erik admits. "My mother died when I was four so he's really all I remember. I'm glad he came to terms with me leaving: I think I'd miss him more if we'd parted bitter."

"My Da left when I was a babe." Stephen stares at the fire. "It was just my mother and I and my older brother. He married when I was eight, so then it was just Mother and I. Mother...when she married my father, he had money. She thought she was going to have a good life. Da, though, he gambled it all away. Lost everything: they had to leave their nice house and move into a shack. He blamed my mother for it, and she blamed him, and when he was gone, she blamed Alain and I."

"Alain...that's your brother?" Erik is afraid to say more, afraid Stephen will stop talking and retreat back into himself.

"After Alain left, all she had left to hate was me. She worked as a laundress to support us, and I...I got into trouble. Drinking, fighting, wenching, stealing: I was a bloody little terror." Stephen's lips twitch slightly. "A neighbor convinced her that it was because I didn't have a man to keep me in line, so when I was fourteen she packed me up and sent me to live with Alain and his wife and little ones."

Stephen gnaws on his lip, trying to think of how to form the words. He wants to end it there, but some part of him cannot stop. He needs Erik to know this, to know all of him, because maybe them he can finally put aside the unrelenting fear that the Nord would find out on his own and turn away in disgust.

"Alain was ten years older than I was: we'd never been very close, but he took me in anyway. His wife instantly hated me, especially since my nephews thought I was wonderful and wanted to be just like me. I repaid Alain's kindness by being even more of a trouble-maker for him than I was for my mother. He wasn't a gentle man: he took a belt to me more than once, but it just made me more determined to thwart his efforts to make me respectable.

"One night when I was sixteen, we were having a blizzard, like tonight. My bed was in the rafters, and I could hear my brother and his wife fighting about me. Nancy told him that she'd had enough: one of my nephews had been caught earlier that day nicking something from a shop, you see. She said I was a horrible influence on her sons, and she'd be damned to see them in prison because of me. She told Alain that either I went or she and the boys went."

"He threw you out?" Erik asks softly.

"No. I never gave him the chance. I grabbed what I could and left that night. I truly felt guilt for the first time in my life about my nephew, and I thought leaving on my own was the only thing I could do to try and make it up to Alain. I spent the next few years traveling around Cyrodiil, working a bit, stealing whatever I could. One day I lifted a coinpurse off of a Nordsman in Burma. I reasoned that the Nords had built their wealth pillaging and plundering everyone else years earlier so I was just taking back what was mine, in a sense. Somehow that led to the idea of coming to Skyrim and robbing all of you blind. I was arrested at the border...I remember when they had my head on the chopping block at Helgen. I wasn't afraid, in a way I found it a bit funny that for all my crimes I was being put to death for something I hadn't done. I...was looking forward to dying. Bloody dragon."

A log in the fire pops and Meeko jumpsin his sleep. "The Nine had other things in store for you, my friend." Erik reaches over and squeezes Stephen's hand."I owe that dragon for showing up when it did. Thank you, for telling me."

"Sometimes I wish I could push it all off on someone else. I didn't ask to be Dovahkiin: I wish I could just go back to being Stephen the Thief. I don't want to be a hero, damn it! I never did!" The look he gives Erik is desperate, naked, and it breaks the Nord's heart.

"When this is over..." Erik uses his free hand to hold Stephen's head and make the Breton face him. "When this is all over, we're going to Cyrodiil. We're going to go to your brother's house, and you're going to show him the man you became. Then we'll do whatever you want. If you want to go back to being a rootless thief, then we'll be thieves."

Stephen snorts "You hate thieves. You glare at me when I'm just considering taking something."

"We both know you do more than consider when my back is turned, but if that's the life that would make you happy then so be it. They can throw us in a cell together."

Stephen shakes his head in exasperation: Erik one of the most honest men he's ever known and the idea of him taking to a life of crime is ludicrous. Still, he's touched by the offer and leans forward to press a soft kiss against Erik's lips. "I'm going back to bed. What would make me happy right now is some company."

Stephen gets up from his chair and heads toward the stairs, feeling the warmth of Erik following close behind. The idea of spending the next few days trapped here has suddenly grown much more appealing. He can view it, not as a prison, but as a respite. A holiday from dragons and bandits and whatever else Skyrim can throw at him.

Maybe, he thinks, he will go back to Cyrodiil, to High Rock, and apologize to Alain for being such a pratt. But tonight, he only wants his warm, fur-piled bed and the embrace of the big red-haired Nordsman who is already pulling him down toward it.

The world spun countless years before the coming of Dovahkiin. It can surely manage on its own without him for a little while.


	3. Just One Thing

_Disclaimer: I still don't own these characters. This isn't the chapter I was going to post next, but sometimes stories take on a life of their own. A reminder: these are one-shots so they're not really in any order. This is told from Stephen's POV as he reflects on two pivotal moments during his life in Skyrim: his decision to stay and the Gods' answer to an exhausted prayer. Contains some references to "A Night to Remember" quest._

**One Thing**

It was the bloody giants, that's what it was. They're the reason I'm still here.

After the dragon attacked Whiterun and everyone had started in on the whole "Dovahkiin" business, I decided that coming to Skyrim was the biggest mistake of my life. I wasn't on the market to be anyone's hero or chosen or Dragonborn or whatever else they wanted to pin on me. Seemed to me a bit lazy: Nords having a problem and sticking a foreigner with the task of fixing it for them. They weren't _my _dragons: it wasn't as if I'd smuggled them in from Cyrodiil in a moment of whimsy. I decided that the Graybeards could stuff their stupid summons: I was going home.

So I took what I could carry, not all of it rightly mine, and headed south. Thought I might go honest once I was back in High Rock, take a trade, and be as bland and uninteresting as possible so that if the bloody Nords did decide to come looking for Dovahkiin they'd gaze right through me. I mean, I don't exact look the part. That's a bit useful at times.

So I was still a good way from the border, and I was walking along the top of this ridge, over the plains. It was warm, warm for this frigid place anyway, and I was in a kind of odd mood. I happened to look down into the plains, and I saw a group of giants walking along with their mammoths. It was as close as I'd ever been to the big brutes: close as I'd ever wanted to get, and I stopped for a moment to watch them.

I started wondering if we'd ever had them in High Rock, the giants and the mammoths. Never heard that we did, but I suppose if we ever had them the Empire drove them out quick enough. They've done their best to civilize the place: sure if you go into some caves you may get your head handed to you, but most of the stuff above ground is almost tame. Anything dangerous does make its way to the surface and the Imperials take care of it before you can blink. Even our wilderness is…civilized. Safe.

Skyrim was everything I'd ever heard it to be. It was uncivilized and cold and raw and wild, just like the people who lived there. It was a place where giants could herd their beasties in peace, where you could ramble for weeks without seeing another living soul. It was a place where sometimes at night the sky was banded with reds and greens as if the Gods were feeling a bit artistic. And…it was beautiful. I stood there looking out over the land and suddenly it was all so beautiful it almost made my heart ache. Even the giants seemed beautiful and exactly where they belonged. I'm not a crier: my Mum switched that out of me before I was half-grown. Damned if I didn't get a bit choked up though that day.

I wanted it to stay like that, I realized. I wanted the giants and the mammoths and the Nords to be left in peace, keep living the way they'd been living, because somehow they were doing it right. The dragons wanted to scorch all of it to cinders, and if that failed the Empire wanted to turn it into a colder version of Cyrodiil. Figured there wasn't much I could do about the Empire by my lonesome, but for some odd enough reason I could do something about the dragons. Something in me was different whether or not I wanted to be. It was like this little voice in my head saying "You want to keep Skyrim like this? Then stop being a cowardly little git and DO it. Do what you can. You're going to die anyway when it's all said and done: do you want to snuff it from a dagger in the neck when someone wakes up to find you helping yourself in their larder, or do you want to die for something that matters?"

So I turned myself around and went back. It should have felt like I was walking toward the chopping block again, but it didn't. It felt right: I wasn't sure if I could manage to live up to anyone's expectations but I wanted to try. I thought about Alain and his wife and little ones, and my Mum. The dragons wouldn't stop at Skyrim: once they'd sent everyone and everything here to the knackers, they'd move south. They'd work their way through Cyrodiil and Hammerfell and then little High Rock wouldn't stand a chance. I'd thought ridding Alain of me was the only gift I could give him, but fighting to keep my brother and his alive…I could do that too, even if he never knew.

It was a few months after my epiphany, and I'd been tracking a dragon since leaving Whiterun. The bloody thing seemed to be toying with me: staying in place just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of it and then moving on again. Truth be told, I was starting to doubt my own decision that day. I was one man, and not much of one at that. I was cold, and exhausted, and I was unbelievably lonely. I looked up at the stars and I wondered if the Gods were listening. They'd better be, I thought, since it was their idea to do this to me.

I'd been following along faithfully like a good little Dovahkiin, and I decided it was time to call in a favor. I asked them for something, anything, to make it a bit easier. Good sword, fast horse, bag that magically generated food, something. I wasn't going to be greedy about it, but a little token of their appreciation didn't seem like too much to ask. If more Daedra wanted to toss a trinket or two my way as well, I wouldn't ask questions.

I heard a roar in the distance, and saw the dragon circling a row of buildings. Rorikstead…I felt my face grow a bit warm as I remembered the last time I'd been there. I strongly doubted that Ennis would be pleased to see me again after the business with Gleda, and I also doubted he'd believe me if I laid the blame for the whole ruddy mess at the feet of Sanguine, where it belonged. Mum and Alain had certainly never believed me when I tried to blame my misdeeds on the devil….

Things done were things done, as Alain used to say. That dragon could decimate a tiny place like Rorikstead if it took half a mind to, all those wooden buildings. I hadn't rescued Gleda from that giant to see her toasted crispy, and I didn't figure those poor farmers deserved to be cooked either. I just hoped if the beast planned to attack it would be kind enough to wait until morning, because just reaching the hold was going to take the last bit of energy I had.

A bit later, I walked carefully past Ennis' farm in case he happened to be about and around, but I was in luck. Gleda was out, though, and gave me a bleat of greeting. I suspected the old girl had probably had the time of her life and thought of my kidnapping (I snickered to myself at the play on words) as a marvelous game. I pulled some wilting cabbage out of my pack and offered it to her. She accepted the gift and munched it enthusiastically. If I was ever in need of a goat again for any reason, I suspected Gleda would be more than happy to volunteer her services.

I scanned the sky once again for the dragon, but it seemed to have retired for the night. As I forced my legs up the steps toward the door of the Frostfruit Inn, I decided that for once dragons and I were in accord.

Just one thing, I thought, my hand on the rough wooden door. Just one thing to make all of this easier…

Anything…


	4. Things Unspoken

_Disclaimer: still not mine. Decided to go ahead and put this one up too while I was at it. There is nothing earth-shattering here: just some fluffiness. A lot of these are just going to be fluffy, because I really need some fluffy in my life right now. Erik really does not like Stephen's petty crimes: besides ranting about thieves and bandits, if I break into a house and speak to him, he literally yells at me "You're not supposed to be in here!" _

**Things Unspoken**

"I think it's pretty obvious…" Erik wipes his blade on the rough sawgrass. "Someone wants you dead, Stephen. Enough, Meeko. Think it's the Thalmer?"

Meeko barks once more at the dead assassin, daring it to get up and face him. Vigilance sits nearby, giving Meeko a look of exasperation. Although relatively new to the small group, the war-dog has already made it perfectly clear that Meeko's talents would better be served in the role of lovable house-pet, leaving the real work to those much more qualified. (Oddly enough, Stephen's reason for purchasing the dog was that 'Meeko needed a friend.')

Stephen shrugs and continues to sort through the dead man's pockets. "Lots of people want me dead, if you haven't noticed. Forsworn. Dragons. Bandits. What makes the Thalmer think they're so special? I'll lay you out odds that even Nancy scraped together the coin to send some goons across the mountains to track me down."

"I'm serious!"

"So am I. I…may have nicked her grandmum's necklace on my way out…" Stephen has the grace to look at least a little ashamed at that part. "What? She hardly ever wore it."

Erik rubs his eyes and sighs. "My point is that you need to be more careful. We need to be more careful." He glances into the distance and makes a face at the line of buildings he can just barely make out. "And heading into…that place…isn't being careful. We should be looking for the next burial mound."

"I told you." Stephen stands up and brushes off his hands, satisfied that the would-be assassin has been completely divested of anything useful or valuable. "I need Balimund's help with something. It'll be two days at the most. I don't like Riften any more than you do, but he's the best smith I know. Ready to go?"

Stephen turns around before he can see Erik's frown deepen. He whistles to the dogs, who both rise up, tails wagging. "Come on, boys. Let's leave this idiot to the wolves."

They head toward the village, with Erik bring up the rear of the group as usual. The closer they get to Riften, the worse his mood becomes.

Erik makes no apologies about his feelings toward thieves and bandits: it was a bandit raid that took his mother from him, after all. He's never been comfortable with Stephen's sticky fingers, and has tried to nudge him onto a more honest path. He believes that Stephen is making an effort toward that: the unrecognized items in his belongings appear less and less these days. However, Riften is exactly the kind of place that could tempt him back into crime. He knows that Stephen was offered a place in the Thieves Guild: he also knows that Stephen has never accepted that invitation and understands that it is more out of his love for Erik than a desire to behave. He can accept that.

Sometimes, though, it is the love he wonders about.

Stephen is not given toward romantic gestures or words. He can, with some effort (and usually some mead), tell Erik he loves him. He is more than willing to demonstrate his affection when they are alone. Let Erik try anything more than a friendly clap on the back in front of others, however, and Stephen's glare could freeze a man's blood in his veins. Erik accepts Stephen's rules but doesn't like them. He doesn't like spending any time in the cesspool that is Riften.

He also does not like Balimund.

Big and red-haired, the blacksmith could pass himself off as Erik's elder brother if he had a mind to. He is also a rarity in Riften: a totally straightforward and honest man. Erik still doesn't trust him: doesn't like the way his bearded face splits into a grin at the sight of Stephen, doesn't like how Balimund's eyes linger on the Breton when Stephen's back is turned. He also doesn't like how Stephen drops his guard and immediately relaxes in the company of the older man, sitting close and listening intently to his instructions on blending and working steel.

Erik enthusiastically approves of Stephen's interest in smithing and his aptitude for it. It is good, honest work, and Stephen has even expressed interest in having a forge of his own once the business with the dragons is settled. He lacks the hulking strength of men like Balimund so he works much slower, but his creations are (in Erik's biased opinion) just as well-made in the end. He's been Adrianne's unofficial apprentice for ages now, and Erik cannot understand for the life of him why Stephen feels the need to drag them both to this wretched place so he can talk trade with Balimund. He can't shake the feeling there is something else going on, and it gnaws at his innards. He watches Stephen break into a sprint, the dogs at his heals, his pale hair flying out behind him like a banner. Even if Stephen's intentions are pure, which he must believe, he doesn't buy for a moment that Balimund's are the same. And if the older Nord is looking to turn this into a fight, then Erik will be happy to give him one.

/

They have been in Riften a little over two days now, and Erik is bored. Stephen has glued himself to Balimund's side: Erik happened to walk by earlier, accidentally on purpose, and see them with their heads close together. Stephen was laughing about something, and Erik ground his teeth together so hard his jaw began to ache. Stephen's laughter was precious to him: so much weighed on the Breton, too much for someone so young. Every smile Erik was able to induce felt like a grand accomplishment. It was irrational to claim Stephen's joy as his own, he knew this, but he still has to fight down the overwhelming urge to plant his fist in the blacksmith's face.

Oddly enough, he doesn't feel the same way about Stephen's friend Vorstag. The tattooed young mercenary has even travelled with them on occasion, and if he wanted to be jealous of that man he has plenty of reasons: Stephen and Vorstag had frequently warmed each other's furs before Erik had entered the picture. They even joke about it in front of Erik, and he's never felt anything other than a little bit of regret that Vorstag had been the one to show Stephen that the rumors of Nord prowess were true. He knows that the more intimate side of their friendship is in the past, and that Stephen has no interest in rekindling it. Why can't he feel as confident about Balimund?

To avoid doing something foolish, he takes the dogs hunting instead, deciding they too must be bored from inactivity. To his surprise, it considerately lightens his mood. Vigilance is clearly trying to teach Meeko proper sneaking techniques. The older dog is eager to learn, but lacks the patience of the young: he springs forward barking his head off, sending the deer and rabbits flying before Erik can even ready his arrow. As the sun sets and Erik heads back to Riften empty-handed, he wishes Stephen could have joined in the fun. It's a shame he was too busy having fun of his own…

He finds himself back by the forge again. Balimund is hammering at a piece of glowing metal, but Stephen is gone.

"He went back to the inn, looking for you." Balimund doesn't look up from his work. "He's probably still there."

"Thank you." Stephen turns to leave.

"You're being a fool." Balimund continues. "I think you'll realize that once you catch up with him."

"I beg your pardon?"

Balimund finally meets his gaze and there is a kind of wistful sadness about him. Somehow the scars on his face seem deeper tonight. "I'm no threat to you, boy. Wish I was. Fact is, he never had a father to teach him anything and I can give him that. That's all he wants from me, and I'm not dumb enough to ask for more. Now get. He's waiting for you."

Erik cannot think of a reply for that. He is ashamed that his jealousy was so transparent, and wonders if Stephen has picked up on it as well. He is still not reassured, however. Perhaps Stephen would be happier here, away from danger, apprenticed to Balimund, and free to indulge his inner magpie by stealing without censure.

He walks through the dingy inn, past the horrid bard (good bards avoid this place) and opens the door to the small room they have rented. And stops.

On the bed is a gleaming armor chest-plate. It appears golden, but a closer look tells him it's actually forged with dwarven metal. He runs his hands over it in shock, taking in the rivets and hidden fastenings. It's solid but lighter than his current armor and he marvels at the workmanship.

"Do you like it?" Stephen asks from behind him. "When we were in the dwemer ruins a fortnight ago, I remember you looking at the armor we found, wishing it was big enough to fit you. I didn't know how to make anything dwarven style, and Adrianne didn't know either. Balimund had to show me how, but I did most of it myself."

Stephen turns to face the wall now, and his cheeks are flushed red. "What you said before…about how we have to be careful? You're right: we do. People do want me dead, and since you're with me they'll want you dead too. I need you to be…safe. If anything happened to you…"

Erik feels like the biggest idiot to ever walk the face of the world, every bit the fool Balimund has charged. He pulls the Breton against his chest into a tight embrace, and Stephen's head fits perfectly against his shoulder, as it always has. "It's beautiful. I love it, and I love you, and I'm not going anywhere."

"He's just…a friend." Stephen's voice is muffled by the rough cotton of Erik's tunic. "He's a lot more a patient than Adrianne and he knows a lot more. It had to be as good as I could make it…"

Erik realizes that Stephen was aware of his feelings and under the embarrassment is a sense of relief that he doesn't have to hide it any longer. "I'm pretty new at this." He says somewhat gruffly, still holding tightly to his Breton. "I just think sometimes, you could have anyone you wanted…"

Stephen pulls back from the embrace and shakes his head. "You were my gift. I wished…and there you were. Why would I want anyone else?" He says nothing else as Erik's mouth is tight over his own, and the Nord's large hands running down his back and drawing him close again.

An hour later finds them lying exhausted on top of the furs, as they had after the first time in an abandoned bandit camp far from here. Erik's new armor gleams next to the bed, and as Stephen falls asleep against his damp chest, the Nord drops one hand to run over the polished metal. It was truly a labor of love, and he'll never doubt the depth of Stephen's feelings again.

Erik remembers, suddenly, a funny story Mralki told him about his grandparents: how his grandfather had been a man of few words, and how one day his grandmother had asked him if he loved her. "I told you I did on our wedding day." Mralki's father had supposedly replied. "If anything changes, I'll let you know."

He chuckles to himself, and leans forward to kiss the top of Stephen's head. He isn't worried about anything changing, and for the first time ever, Erik sleeps peacefully in Riften.


	5. Legacy

_Notes: I still do not own the characters of Skyrim. This chapter may require some explanation. _

_I have never liked using magic in games: it's nothing against it, but it just seems awkward to me compared to a good sword or dagger. I will use some healing spells and sometimes fire, and that's pretty much it. Skyrim is no different. The problem is that I knew I wanted to play as a Breton: I had Stephen's background and story mapped out before the game was even released. Bretons are inherently magical people and my character was going to be a Breton who only bothered with spells as a last resort. I could not play comfortably until I ferreted out Stephen's reason for that. Luckily based on the Elder Scrolls lore it was easy to find his motivation. Enough rambling. (And yes, we did get lost in Dwemer ruins for a long while before I remembered I had that spell. Those places are creepy.)_

**Legacy**

With some exceptions, Nords have little talent for magic. Therefore, they tend to have little use for it and a great deal of mistrust. Erik can no more cast a spell than he can fly or turn himself into a dragon, and he is quite content with this. He prefers more reliable methods of expressing his displeasure. Such as hammers.

However, Stephen's antipathy toward magic puzzles him. Bretons are naturally-born mages: Stephen is more than capable of casting any spell he pleases and he will if there is no other course of option available to him. He isn't even comfortable Shouting, which has nothing to do with mage-talent. He puts his trust in his handmade daggers, potions, and his companion. When he is forced to cast spells, his face reminds Erik of a sulky toddler being ordered to choke down carrots. They had once spent nearly a full day wandering aimlessly around Dwemer ruins before the Breton had finally, grudgingly used his Clairvoyance to lead them out. To Erik, this seems like owning a fine sword and using it to decorate your living room wall. If he had magic, he would use it. Why waste your talents?

Tonight the Nord isn't in the best mood. His left leg throbs from a wolf-bite: a potion managed to seal up the wounds but he can still feel it. He is also annoyed by Stephen's response to the injury: Erik had expected a bit more sympathy than being tossed a healing draught and told to "Be more careful next time. Those aren't cheap." Especially since a healing spell would have been free.

Stephen has also not slowed down the pace as they head for the next burial mound: he is determined to beat Alduin there and by the time he reluctantly agrees to make camp for the night, Erik's normally easy-going nature is absent. The dogs sense this and are doing their best to assure him that they are in no way responsible for poor decisions on the part of Other Master.

Erik spreads out his sleeping fur and sits rubbing his leg, watching as Stephen strikes flint and steel above his pile of tinder. They're far to the North right now, and even Erik's inherent tolerance for cold can't keep him from shivering. He wants a blazing fire and a hot dinner, and the longer Stephen takes to get the blaze going (the wood is damp) the more irritated he becomes.

"By the Nine, just case a damn fire spell on the thing!" Erik finally has had enough.

"I don't need to use a fire spell. I almost have it." Stephen replies through gritted teeth.

Erik allows the Breton one or two more feeble attempts before he decides to act. During their most recent travels, Stephen has acquired an enchanted staff capable of lobbing firebolts, and has given it to Erik to carry until they can find a mage to sell it to. Erik has even used it a few times in battle: it will never be his weapon of choice but he understands the basics and can get the fire to land where he wants it to.

Stephen does not see Erik pick up the staff and aim it at the wood-pile. The firebolt strikes the tinder with an ear-splitting explosion, setting it ablaze. Stephen lets out an involuntary yelp and throws himself to the side to avoid going up in flames as well. This along is enough to lift Erik out of his gloomy mood: he roars with laughter as a still-shaking Stephen hauls himself off the ground. Vigilance and Meeko wag their tails, grinning huge doggy grins. Stephen will find no sympathy from the canines of the party.

"What…in the name…of…Oblivion…is WRONG WITH YOU?" Stephen shouts.

"I was cold and you were taking too long." Erik shrugs. "See? Fire." He grabs his food sack and moves toward the blaze. Stephen's talents for killing dragons and smithing do not extend as far as the cook-pot: not even Meeko (who has been known to gnaw on tasty-looking rocks) will touch his creations. Erik did enough cooking at the inn to be proficient at it: he can't do anything fancy but does well enough to create a simple, edible meal. He doesn't mind the chore: it reminds him of home.

Stephen looks as though he is struggling for something particularly vile to say. Nothing seems to come to mind as he turns his back on Erik and goes stomping off toward the little stream not far from where they are camped. "Dinner will be ready soon." Erik cheerfully calls after him. "If you're going swimming make it quick."

Stephen does not turn around, but instead raises his right hand and flashes what Erik has learned is a rude gesture among Bretons. "Glad to as always." Erik cannot stop himself from replying. "But at least let me get something to eat first." This time Stephen ignores him, and Erik turns his focus back to what he hopes will be a good vegetable and rabbit soup when it's complete.

Stephen may be angry, but not so angry that he would chose to stay the night by the river instead of coming back to the warm camp for dinner. The soup is just beginning to bubble when he returns, and it smells heavily of garlic, which they both have a taste for. He accepts his bowl from Erik with a grunt and huddles down over it to over it to eat, still not in the mood to forgive the Nord.

After he is finished, Erik leans back on his hands and gives Stephen a sideways look. He sees Stephen's lips twitch into a smile and the Breton fighting to retain his glare. "Why do I even put up with you?" Stephen mutters. "I should have stuck with Vorstag. He'd rather juggle snakes than even touch that staff."

"Because he's pretty to look at and about as exciting as watching mud dry." Erik offers with a wide grin. "I'm much more fun."

"My idea of fun isn't having my hair set on fire." Stephen gives up and moves to sit next to Erik.

Erik is reluctant to do anything to set them at odds again, but he needs to know. "Why do you hate your magic so much? I know a little bit about your people: it's everywhere in High Rock. My Da told me they test little ones for it almost before they can walk."

Stephen sighs and flexes his fingers in the thick furs under him. "Just the people who matter. If you're a noble, the better you are in magic the more respected you are. There's a fierce battle over tutors: one family in Daggerfell had another one murdered off completely so that they could snag that clan's house mage. If you're a peasant, it doesn't matter what you can do: no one really cares. They usually find some mage who's disgraced himself and send him around to the little villages and farms to teach us pauper brats enough so that we don't set the entire place on fire. Most of the kiddies love it: there's only a few who don't."

"And you were one of them." Erik guesses, but Stephen shakes his head.

"No. I took to it like a duck to water. I wore that old bugger out learning everything he could teach me. It made my life a lot easier and a lot more comfortable. See, my Mum…she never used spells. Not ever, and I was a bit like you: I couldn't figure out why and I used to nag her about it, and Mum could be a real hagraven if I got her dander up about anything. One day…I suppose I must have been about nine, she came home and I was outside the house shooting fireballs at birds. She told me to stop and I sassed her: told her that she was just jealous because she couldn't do it."

Stephen pauses. "She backhanded me to the ground, and while I was lying there, she looked down and she said 'Do you know why you can cast those spells? Why Bretons can use magic?'"

Stephen rubs his mouth in memory. "She chipped one of my teeth that day, but it was still a milk tooth so it didn't really matter. I remember the look on her face: she was so angry, but I don't think…I don't think it was me she was angry at.

"I repeated what the old mage had drilled into me, that the elves interbred with the humans when they lived here. She kind of sneered and said 'Is that what that old drunk is teaching you lot? We were their _slaves,_ Stephen." Stephen's tone and inflection change as he mimics his mother, and Erik feels a chill. He can easily hear an enraged woman in Stephen's voice, but he also hears frustration and sadness as well. He wonders if Stephen can hear it, or if he ever heard it.

"She told me the truth, then, Mum. That the reason I could use magic was that some highborn elven bastards forced themselves on our ancestors. Raped them and forced them to give birth to halfbreeds, and enslaved them as well. Sometimes…" Stephen makes a fist in the fur. "They did what people do with cattle, when you have a line you want to keep pure. They mated fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, brothers and sisters. We were cattle to them: sold and traded and bred as they saw fit. And we…accepted it. When you…the Nords…came to High Rock and tried to free us, we fought you off because the filthy buggers had convinced us that we were happy.

"Imagine your grandmum as a young girl, being forced to share a bed with as many elves as wanted her. Sure it was a few grandmums back, but I was the end result of it all: a snotty little'un trying to shoot down birds without a bloody clue what those women paid to give me that power. " Stephen's accent grows thicker when he reflects on his past: Erik has noticed this before. Not just thicker…less…formal somehow. He would hardly consider himself an expert on Breton linguistics but just as he was able to hear Stephen's mother, when his lover speaks like this he can hear the boy Stephen used to be.

"After that, I can't ever cast a spell without thinking what the elves did to us, to my family. It makes me feel dirty, like I'm taking advantage of the pain they caused us for my own good. Only time I don't mind casting spells is at their pointy-earred heads. I kind of like the irony in that: figure my grandmums would be okay with me using it for a good cause. But to use it just because it's easier, or I'm feeling lazy… I can't make it any clearer to you than that, Erik, and I won't change my mind about it. "

The irony in that moment, Erik thought, was that in the glow of the fire and full of moral outrage about the cruelty his ancestors suffered at the hands of the elves, the Breton had never looked more elf-like.

Erik knew he could have said a lot of things: could have pointed out that as despicable as those ancient elves had acted, they were Stephen's family too. They were as much as part of him as those poor Breton slave-women had been. That the magic in his blood was a part of him as well, and that to deny it was to deny himself. It was all true, after all, as far as Erik could reason. He also sensed that Stephen was correct: this was an argument that the Nord was never going to be able to win. Mralki had sometimes cryptically said that there was victory in defeat: Erik decides perhaps this is one of those times.

"I'm sorry." Erik says instead. "I never thought of it like that."

"Wretched elves…" Stephen's tone is still bitter. "It makes me sick that the Empire caved to them. They said it was to keep them from taking over. What difference does it make if they're going to let the Thalmer do as they please anyway? Haven't they already taken over? We kicked the bloody bastards out of High Rock once, and the Empire wants to let them have it back, have Cyrodiil, have Skyrim, have everything they please!"

Again, Erik could make an argument here for both sides of the internal conflict Skyrim faces. His heart breaks for his countrymen locked away for worshipping Talos, and he hated the smug and condescending Thalmer long before they decided to try and kill Stephen. He also understands that the Empire, to use a term he heard an Imperial once use, had to sacrifice the soul of Skyrim to keep the heart beating. He understands the reason for the treaty, the impossible situation the Empire faced. He doesn't want to, but he does.

"My father believes…" Erik says softly "that the Thalmer want the civil war to go on as long as possible. As long as the Empire and the Stormcloaks are attacking each other, there's nothing left to go after the elves with." Mralki had also said, dryly, that the perhaps the Stormcloaks and the Imperials had decided the best way to deal with the dragon problem was to rip Skryim apart between them. If there was nothing else to destroy, perhaps the dragons would grow bored and leave. He does not add that part.

"We should get some sleep." Stephen changes the subject. "I want to leave at dawn. Your leg…is it still bothering you? I can heal it if you really need me to."

"No, it's fine. Just a little stiff. " Erik rubs the muscle, surprised that it does feel better now. "I'll be good to go at sunrise."

They sleep as they usually do when camping in the cold. Near the fire, with the furs pulled up over their heads and the dogs lying on top of them, all four sharing their warmth. Vigilance is well-named and will alert them of any danger, and Meeko may as well if Vigilance can wake him up enough to notice.

Stephen wakes up well before sunrise, shivering in spite of the warm furs and warm bodies piled around him. The fire has gone out, but in the dim light he sees that most of the wood is still intact. If he gets up, he'll awake Erik and the dogs. He sighs to himself and frees one hand, pointing it at the timber. He doesn't have to even think about how to summon the fire to his fingertips: it is as natural and easy to him as breathing. He lets the magic flow and soon the fire is again blazing.

He sends a quick, silent apology to his ancestors, hoping they understand, and wiggles back down into the furry nest. He dreams of his mother, and his old tutor, and of High Rock, but will not remember any of this upon awaking. Nor does he notice the curious fox who decides their camp looks inviting and curls up on top of his hip to spend the night. Vigilance notices, and thinks the fox has some nerve, but isn't annoyed enough to complain.

Not far from their camp, the dragon Alduin sleeps wrapped up in his own leathery wings, muttering words in a forgotten tongue, and dreaming of the hot blood of the Dovahkiin spraying into his mouth and running down his throat. The dragon laughs in his sleep, and in the human camp Stephen twitches and whispers a word of his own, a plea for comfort and protection.

"Mum."


End file.
